Chapter 8 - THE BROTHER IN THE CROSSHAIRS
Arthur Vance stared at the blinking green LED on the decrypted transponder for several seconds before slamming his fist onto the steel table.
"That arrogant bastard," Arthur hissed, his voice trembling with a mentor's deep, bitter rage.
"I taught Daniel Morris how to analyze a crime scene thirty years ago when he was just an ambitious patrol rookie."
"I taught him that the physical evidence is the only thing on this earth that cannot tell a lie."
"And now he uses my own protocols to turn the entire department into an execution squad."
Eleanor sat calmly on a wooden stool near the chemical rack, her hands resting folded over the brass grip of her cane.
"Rage is an indulgence for men who have nothing to lose, Arthur," Eleanor said softly.
"Right now, my other grandson is out there, completely unprotected."
Ryan turned sharply toward his grandmother.
"Victor isn't unprotected, Grandmother."
"He's hiding because he knows what he did."
Ava stepped between the two DeMarcos, her investigative mindset locking onto the core vulnerability of the conspiracy.
"Victor is the only living witness who links Captain Morris directly to the money trail," Ava said.
"The offshore bank transfers Ryan found prove that Morris was moving dirty money through Victor's shipping accounts."
"If Morris is executing witnesses to wipe the board clean, Victor is next on his target list."
Ryan pulled a secondary, unlisted burner phone from his breast pocket and began punching in an eight-digit pin.
"Where is he, Ryan?" Ava asked, her hand hovering near her holstered weapon.
"The DeMarco family doesn't surrender its blood to the police, Detective," Ryan replied coldly without looking up.
"Your brother isn't being surrendered, Ryan," Ava snapped, stepping into his space until her eyes were inches from his.
"Your brother is being hunted by professional killers wearing tactical body armor."
"If we don't find him in the next two hours, Morris’s squad will put a bullet through the back of his head and leave him in an alley with an untraceable drop gun."
Ryan stopped typing.
He looked down at Ava, seeing the relentless, fierce determination burning in her eyes.
He saw no deceit, no institutional arrogance, and no desire to climb the departmental ladder.
He saw only a woman who wanted justice for her murdered partner at any cost.
Ryan slowly lowered the phone.
"The municipal yacht basin," Ryan said, his voice dropping an octave.
"Warehouse number twelve at the Harbor Run marina."
"Victor keeps a converted loft above the dry-dock repair bays."
"He thinks nobody knows about it."
"He bought it under a shell company three months ago when he started panicking about the internal audits."
Arthur grabbed two heavy ballistic vests from a steel locker and tossed one to Ava and one to Ryan.
"These are level-four ceramic plates," Arthur said.
"They'll stop a thirty-caliber rifle round at fifty yards."
"You two go get the boy."
"Leave Eleanor here with me."
"Nobody finds this cabin unless I want them to find it."
Eleanor looked at Ryan, her eyes softening for a brief fraction of a second.
"Bring your brother home alive, Ryan," the old woman whispered.
"Whatever sins he committed against this family, he is still your mother's son."
"I'll bring him back, Grandmother," Ryan promised.
Ten minutes later, Ryan and Ava were back inside the unmarked blue sedan, cutting through the dense fog of the harbor district.
The smell of rotting seaweed, diesel exhaust, and salt spray hung heavy over the waterfront.
Warehouse Twelve was a massive, rusted corrugated-iron structure standing at the end of a deserted pier.
Rainwater poured from the broken gutters, splashing into the murky black water of the river basin below.
Ava unholstered her weapon, racking the slide silently in the shadows of the doorway.
Ryan bypassed the electric roll-up door, jimmying the rusted padlock on the pedestrian entrance with a steel pick.
They slipped inside into the cold, damp cavern of the boat repair bay.
The air smelled of fiberglass resin, motor oil, and cheap bourbon.
Up on the metal mezzanine level, a dim yellow light flickered through the frosted window of the office.
Ava and Ryan ascended the iron staircase with absolute tactical discipline, their boots making no sound on the perforated steel steps.
Ryan kicked the office door inward with a violent crash.
Inside, Victor DeMarco jumped up from a leather sofa, knocking over a half-empty bottle of scotch that shattered across the floorboards.
At twenty-nine, Victor shared Ryan's dark hair and sharp features, but his eyes were hollowed out by fear and sleeplessness.
He held a chrome-plated revolver with two shaking hands, leveling it erratically toward the doorway.
"Get back!" Victor screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria.
"I swear to God, Ryan, don't take another step!"
"Put the gun down, Victor," Ryan said, his voice carrying the terrifying, low resonance of an older brother who had run out of patience.
"You don't know how to use it, and you're shaking so badly you'll hit the ceiling."
Ava kept her weapon leveled at Victor's center of mass, her finger strictly off the trigger.
"Lower the weapon, Victor," Ava said calmly.
"I’m Detective Ava Mitchell."
"We're here to get you out before Morris's tactical unit breaches the perimeter."
Victor looked at Ava, then at Ryan, tears of absolute panic welling in his red-rimmed eyes.
"You don't understand, Ryan!" Victor sobbed, lowering the revolver to his side as his knees began to give out.
"Morris has people everywhere!"
"He called me forty minutes ago!"
"He said the maid in our house was an internal affairs operative and that she was coming here to assassinate me to close the case!"
Ryan walked forward, snatched the chrome revolver from Victor’s limp fingers, and cleared the cylinder with one flick of his wrist.
"The maid didn't kill Mark Ellis, Victor," Ryan said, his voice chilling the room.
"Morris did."
"And now Morris is cleaning house."
Victor collapsed onto the sofa, burying his face in his trembling hands.
"I didn't know they were going to shoot him, Ryan," Victor wept, the truth tearing out of his chest like a confession in church.
"I swear on Mama's grave, I didn't know!"
Ava stepped forward, her heart pounding with a mixture of fury and desperate curiosity.
"What happened on Foundry Road, Victor?" Ava demanded.
"Tell me right now!"
Victor looked up, his face pale as paper.
"Mark Ellis came to me three days before he died," Victor whispered.
"He told me he found shipping containers at the rail yard with our family's seal on them, packed with unmarked automatic weapons and cartel narcotics."
"Mark thought Ryan was behind it."
"I knew Ryan wasn't running guns, so I told Mark that Morris was the one who signed the port transit clearances."
"Mark wanted to set up a sting."
"He told me to meet him on Foundry Road with the transfer manifests so he could prove Morris was using our shipping line."
"And what did you do?" Ryan asked, his eyes blazing with cold rage.
Victor swallowed hard, looking down at the puddle of spilled whiskey on the floor.
"I panicked, Ryan."
"I thought if the police arrested Morris, our whole family would get dragged into federal court."
"So I called Morris."
"I told Morris that Mark was waiting for him at the rail yard with the manifests."
"Morris told me he would handle it quietly."
"He told me he would just transfer Mark to another precinct."
Victor began to sob uncontrollably.
"Twenty minutes later, Morris called me from Foundry Road."
"He put the phone to Mark's face while Mark was dying in the gravel."
"And Morris said: ‘If you ever breathe a word about our offshore accounts, Victor, your brother Ryan will be the next one in the dirt.’"
Ava felt the room tilt beneath her feet.
Mark hadn't died in an ambush.
He had been betrayed by a terrified young man who thought he could bargain with a monster.
Before Ava could speak, the shrill scream of tires tearing across wet gravel echoed from the pier outside.
May you like
Then came the heavy, synchronized thud of steel breach doors crashing against the warehouse walls below.
Tactical Unit One had arrived.
